


Quidditch Through the Seasons

by firacentra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 15:29:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12015684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firacentra/pseuds/firacentra
Summary: "His pulse picked up the pace as his thoughts spiraled quickly through a hundred scenarios of how the next few moments could progress, the best involving Pansy declaring her undying love for him, and the worst featuring Pansy turning into Voldemort and telling him he was an unloved fool before Avada Kedavra-ing him."In which Pansy watches a lot of Quidditch and sees a lot of Wood.





	Quidditch Through the Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling's, not mine!

_Quidditch World Cup Finals, Summer 2002_

_Egypt vs. Bulgaria_

“Pansy, if you move any slower, the game will be over and I’ll be _extremely_ upset.”

Pansy pursed her lips in disapproval. “Draco, stop whining. Getting to our seats one minute earlier will literally make _no_ difference.”

Draco stopped in his tracks, shooting a hurt glance over his shoulder at Pansy. “Pansy, Malfoys do _not whine_ . I am merely _graciously_ suggesting that you demonstrate the appropriate amount of appreciation for one of the most incredible sporting events of wizarding-kind.”

“And _I_ would like to _graciously suggest_ that you no longer drag me to these barbaric hoo-ha’s,” she returned.

“‘Hoo-ha’s?’” He wrinkled his nose. “Sounds so _plebeian_. And secondly,” he smirked, “you and I both know you come just to get out of the house.”

“It’s a very in-season word this summer,” she sniffed, choosing to ignore the second statement because she refused to give him confirmation of a fact they both knew was true. Pansy had little else to do besides following Draco to various mindless events, except for maybe moping around the houses of similarly-situated Purebloods.

The war had done its damage to both their family vaults and reputations. There had been months of the _Daily Prophet_ ’s headlines announcing little else but the reparations “owed to the wizarding community” by the former Death Eaters and their families. Pansy and Draco had not been exempt, but even after reparations, their respective families were still in the top 5% of all wizarding accounts, and their lifestyles remained largely cushy.

Finding jobs, however, was a different story. Draco had his family’s business accounts to salvage, as well as positions and duties inherited from Lucius, but Pansy had nothing. The mere thought of trying to find a job had been so repulsive for so much of her life that she hadn’t bothered, especially because she knew it would be futile. Thus, her time was primarily spent moping about pointlessly, occasionally punctuated by these boorish events Draco insisted on dragging her to because he “needed company.” She scoffed internally. _As if his ego wasn’t enough to keep him company._

In reality, Pansy was backup. She was there in case things got nasty, to even out a fight. Sometimes, she was there to make Draco look more like his life was put together, and vice versa. This was an implicit understanding between them, and the basis of their friendship, really. It had always been this way, even at Hogwarts, when their problems were as simple as needing dates for the Yule Ball. Times had changed since then, but their roles and relationship had not.

They reached their plush, navy blue seats in the box ( _nothing but the best for a Malfoy, even after the last few years_ ), still rather early despite Pansy’s decidedly slow stroll through the stadium rows. Their neighbors had yet to arrive, and they settled down into their seats, Pansy looking on with derision as Draco magicked out his (ridiculously unnecessary, in her opinion) Bulgarian team fan items. Or rather, his Viktor Krum fan items. ( _“What, in heaven’s name, is that, Draco?” “This? It’s a foam finger!” he shoved it in her face unceremoniously as the finger squeaked, “Go Bulgaria, go! Krum number one!” “The muggles have come up with some good shit, really.” She had looked at him skeptically and chosen not to pursue that line of conversation any further._ )

Viktor Krum’s face stared at Pansy from a nauseatingly large number of items, from a floating banner someone had levitated to hang above the box seats to the miniature flying model Draco let go near their seats, a tiny scowl marring the Bulgarian seeker’s decidedly not-unhandsome face.

“Really, Draco? And all of _this_ ,” she gestured to all the paraphernalia, “isn’t wildly plebeian?”

“ _Please_ . I’ve seen you ogling his face in the _Prophet_ ,” he snickered.

Her face reddened. “As _if_ I was into muscles. He’s completely not my type,” she prevaricated. “Anyway, if we’re on the topic of denial…” she smirked at him cruelly. “Oh, look! What utterly _perfect_ timing!”

Her eyes flicked toward the stairs to their box, pointing out Hermione Granger in the disgustingly-dubbed “Golden Trio,” who was heading conveniently to the seats by theirs. Draco’s eye twitched as he hissed to Pansy, “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

As they reached their seats, Granger miraculously ending up in the seat next to Draco’s, he stiffly greeted her, “Granger.”

She returned the greeting in much the same manner, nearly giving herself whiplash with the speed that she turned her head to vigorously continue her conversation with Potter and Weasel. Pansy snickered quietly. “Do you lurrrveee her, Draco? Why not just tell her so?” she asked with false innocence.

“Shut _up_ , Pansy,” he hissed. “Just–fucking _don’t_ , okay?”

She shrugged and turned back to face the stadium, dropping the subject, because as fun as it was to tease Draco, she pitied him a little too, for being the underdog for once. Granger and Weasel were currently still going steady, although by the sounds of the argument two seats over, Draco’s shot was not quite as impossible as it had been a few years back, the last time they all ended up in the same box for the Quidditch World Cup. The Cup itself had been shockingly uneventful, but Draco had ended up in a screaming match with Granger, almost certainly arguing over absolutely nothing at all. The two had made the headlines (pitiful gossip-mongers that Prophet reporters were), and sometime between then and now Draco had found himself inadvisably infatuated with Granger. It was all a bit fucked up, in Pansy’s honest opinion, but she was just here for the shits and giggles as she watched it all play out, probably over the next 10 World Cups and 40 years, judging by the glacial pace of their increasingly less hostile interactions.

The seat next to her suddenly became occupied, startling her from her thoughts. She turned to greet them, because fuck, she could have manners, even if she hated being there, but did a double-take at the vaguely familiar face. She squinted a bit, because she had not bothered memorizing the faces and names of Gryffindors several years above her own, although this one had certainly grown into his (ironically muscular) frame. “Hi,” she greeted lamely. “Hogwarts, right?”

He grinned. “Yep. Oliver Wood, Gryffindor Quidditch Team Captain, ‘91 to ‘93,” he introduced proudly, as if he had peaked during school and found it a bragging right. “Pansy Parkinson, right?”

She shifted a bit, taken aback and slightly, though not overly, embarrassed at the lopsided acquaintance. She grimaced, expecting the typical follow-up of, “You’re the one who wanted to send Harry Potter off to his death, right?” but instead heard, “Slytherin, in Potter’s year, yeah?” jerking her back to reality.

“Oh, yeah, that’s me,” she stammered, then collected herself. “Fancy seeing you here,” she said, then paused. “Well,” she amended, “fancy seeing you _here_ ,” gesturing to the box with her chin. “Completely unsurprised to see you here otherwise,” she said, referring to the stadium. “You _are_ the Quidditch nut one, I assume?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s me, alright. I play for England now, actually. Thus the box seat.”

She raised her eyebrows in faux-appreciation. “Of course you do. Sorry you didn’t make it to the Cup.”

He shrugged. “Eh, it was close. I’ve still got a few years, and we’re going to win for sure next time.”

Pansy, already looking forward to the conversation’s end, begrudgingly asked, “And how are you so sure?”

That infuriating grin painted itself across his face again. Really, he seemed to do an inordinate amount of grinning. Quite unseeming, she convinced herself, nearly missing his answer. “I always win in the end. Exhibit A, 1993 Hogwarts Quidditch Cup.”

She sneered half-heartedly. “I imagine that’s a much different level of achievement than winning the _World_ Cup.”

“Not when I’m the one guaranteeing it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s a mighty high level of arrogance you’ve got there, Wood. Sure you can back it up?”

He smirked, the expression giving him an air of mischief, a stark difference from Draco’s signature expression of often-cruel cockiness. For a split second, Pansy’s breath caught in her throat. Before Oliver could reply though, Draco tugged roughly on Pansy’s arm, pointing toward the center of the stadium in excitement, where the pre-game entertainment had begun with great ceremony (greatly ignored, on Pansy’s part). As the Egyptian and Bulgarian team players flew around the pitch, her eyes caught on Krum, at the very end of the lineup. She smiled a little bit to herself, because fine, he _did_ look good in those pants, and she _did_ occasionally imagine laying her head on those broad shoulders, but the thought of muscles swung her mind in a totally unwanted direction, and she could practically _feel_ the physical presence of the eager grin on Wood’s face to her right.

“AND… THEY’RE OFF!” the announcer shouted. The game started with great aplomb and applause from what felt like every witch and wizard in the world, Pansy’s thoughts almost immediately drowned in the thundering cheer and chaos of another Quidditch World Cup.

Her eyes flicked to her right, registering the image of Wood’s hands gripped tightly on his armrest, body leaned forward, impossibly taut… She shook herself mentally, reluctantly forcing her thoughts away from him and back to the game.

Despite his excitement, Draco was largely a quiet watcher, rarely shouting out remarks or encouragement to the players, instead letting his emotions play their ways across his face in small twitches of his eyebrows or the widening of his eyes. Then again, it might have just been because Granger was there. You never could tell with Draco. Pansy’s lips twisted in displeasure. She was clearly in for a long game, with rather evenly-matched teams and the snitch nowhere in sight. She found that with both Draco and the Weasel in the box next to her, and with no one to cheer on or obnoxiously heckle playing in the game, her personal motivation to be involved with the game’s proceedings was close to nil.

Her eyes vaguely followed the players around the field, half-heartedly registering the goals and scores of either side. Suddenly, at Egypt-20, Bulgaria-60, an over-eager hand swatted at her arm with careless enthusiasm, and not with inconsiderable force, forcing her to acknowledge Wood yet again.

“Look, look–aw, damn it, such a waste–if Troughton can pass to Stone over there, he could _easily_ swing around the Bulgarian defense and bring them back up in the running!” Oliver gesticulated wildly, eyes wide and eager as he looked to Pansy, having no one on his other side to bother.

She allowed herself a reluctant, exasperated smile. “You really can’t resist, can you Wood?”

He looked at her, seemingly offended, as if she had denounced Merlin himself. Although, Pansy mused, he would probably give up his magic before he gave up Quidditch. Honestly, she was surprised he could tear his eyes away from the game long enough to have this conversation with her.

“Parkinson,” he said slowly, “are you possibly… not into Quidditch?” His voice was tentative, as if preparing for the worst.

She snorted indelicately. “Well, who would’ve guessed?” she drawled. “The nut’s got perception.”

Instead of being offended, he had the nerve to grin again, rather maniacally in Pansy’s opinion. “ _Well_ , I think you just haven’t truly _watched_ Quidditch then. There’s really so much more to it than guys and balls, Parkinson.”

She couldn’t be sure if he meant it as innuendo or not, but in the case that he was, she decided that she may have underestimated the extent to which he had a love affair with the sport. Draco, having finally torn his attention away from the game enough to notice the interactions going on between the pair beside him, looked at Wood questioningly. “Not bothering you, is he?” he asked Pansy, casually nodding toward Wood.

She hesitated. “No, just chatting.”

Draco’s eyes lingered on Wood, but he eventually nodded and turned back toward the game, eyes immediately seeking out the Quaffle as it barreled around the field in a violent, disjointed path.

Wood raised an eyebrow at her, eyes hiding mirth behind a questioning gaze. “Not bothering you, am I Parkinson?” he parroted, quite obnoxiously.

She sniffed haughtily. “As I said Wood, we’re _just chatting_. Nothing to be bothered about. Now, you were telling me about guys and balls, I believe?”

He gave her a knowing look, smirking in that unfathomably reassuring way of his. “Ah, yes. Well, you see, they can play it hard and fast, which is always rough, but quite exciting, or they can strategize and move the game along with slow, deliberate moves, which can be quite stimulating as well. Which do you think you’d prefer, Parkinson?”

She swallowed, now almost certain he was _not_ talking about the jerseyed players swooping about the field. “What are you playing at, Wood?” she asked in a low voice.

He shrugged, all carefree smiles and innocent eyes again. “Just trying to loosen you up to the idea of a fun time is all.”

She didn’t respond, initially caught up in a cacophony of confused thoughts and emotions, then realized that the silence between them had stretched longer than appropriate for a timely answer. By the time she chanced a look over at him, he was already immersed in the game again, eyes trained sharply on the Bulgarian beater, seemingly lost to the world he spent the majority of his time living in. _That’s right_ , she assured herself. _That’s his entire world_.

The rest of the game passed in a blur for Pansy, though she followed enough to see Krum _just barely_ lose the snitch to the Egyptian seeker, pulling up from a nosedive a millisecond too late, coming up fruitlessly on the Egyptian seeker’s tail as he caught the snitch. Pansy’s hearing was suddenly compromised as the stadium erupted in a mix of cheering and booing, not the mention the dramatic groans from all the spectators around her. Draco’s mouth was twisted into an unpleasant grimace, similar to the look he adopted whenever he watched the Weasel snogging Granger.

Wood turned to her in frustration with despair written across his face, previous tension seemingly forgotten. “Can you _believe_ it?! Un- _fucking_ -believable!”

She nodded in what she hoped was a sympathetic manner, patting his arm awkwardly, but with the intent of polite, amiable comfort.

He seemed to snap out of his disbelief over the game at her touch, turning to her suddenly and looking her in the eyes earnestly. He paused, suddenly seeming unsure of himself. “See you around, eh Parkinson?” he eventually managed.

She nodded jerkily. “Yeah… See you around, Wood.”

 

_Hogsmeade, Winter 2003_

Oliver trudged along the crooked cobblestones of Hogsmeade, staying under the awnings of the street-side shops to avoid the bulk of the snowdrifts littering the streets. He heaved a quiet sigh to himself, bemoaning the task of buying Christmas presents, something he dreaded every year. Consequently, it was an annual ritual of his to put off the task until the last minute.

He reached the ever-popular Honeydukes, although it was a good deal less crowded than usual due to the proximity of the holidays. He smiled. One could never go wrong with gifting sweets. As he walked inside, the little bell over the door tinkling charmingly, his eye caught the back of a dark-haired witch’s head. He changed his trajectory abruptly, making a beeline for her. If he wasn’t mistaken…

“Hey, Parkinson,” he greeted with as much casual amiability as he could muster. “Fancy bumping into you here. It’s been, what? A year? A year and a half?”

She whipped around, seemingly startled by his intrusion into her personal space. “Oh, it’s you,” she sniffed, looking caught somewhere between disappointment and anxiety. A few frigid seconds passed until she realized he was expecting conversation, and she replied in a clipped voice, “Yeah. About a year and a half.”

Oliver felt slightly shorted by her reaction, but shook off the feeling to continue, “No need to be so disappointed in me before I give you a reason to be, Parkinson. Were you expecting someone else?”

She opened her mouth, possibly to answer honestly, then clearly thought better of it, closing her mouth with an audible _clack_ of her teeth. “No, nobody,” she grumbled.

Oliver hesitated, torn between his polite side, which urged him to leave her be, and his Gryffindor side, which thrived off being a nosy fuck and prying into others’ business. As usual, his Gryffindor side won out nearly immediately. “Is everything alright, Parkinson?”

Pansy grimaced. She grabbed a Pumpkin Pasty and put it in her bag, seemingly ignoring him. Oliver stood by her patiently, browsing the sweets that were currently on sale, waiting for a reply he didn’t really expect to receive.

After a minute of tense silence, she grudgingly answered, “Approximately _nothing_ is going right, okay?”

Oliver whipped his head around to look at her, momentarily taken aback by the response. He shook himself mentally, grabbing a Pumpkin Pasty and presenting it to her. “Pasty for your thoughts?”

She grit her teeth, snatching the pasty and dumping it in her bag. “Well, I got dumped right before the holidays, for one. Silly of me to expect him to run back apologizing, wasn’t it?” she bit in a caustic tone.

He winced, masking his (unreasonable, he convinced himself with no real conviction at all) hurt with sympathy. “Sorry.”

She glared, an angry flush coming over her usually-pale cheeks. “Well, it _was_. Silly, I mean,” she said, seemingly determined to make herself feel more like shit. She shook herself a bit. “Anyway, fuck all that. Fuck him. Toss me another Pumpkin Pasty, would you?”

He turned to grab the pasty for her, and when he turned back, he caught her staring longingly between the Sugar Quills and Chocolate Frogs. He stifled a laugh. “Aren’t you quite rich, Parkinson? Why not get both?”

She stiffened, turning to address him with a painful expression of self-restraint. “ _I’m_ rich, Wood. Doesn’t mean my diet has to be.”

He pointedly dropped the Pumpkin Pasty he had been holding into his mouth. “Gotta pack some for the winter, Parkinson.”

His eyes caught the motion of her throat as she swallowed forcefully, and he smirked a little internally as he saw her eyes catch on his jawline. He made sure to chew even more deliberately, moaning a little in only partially-faked delight. Her blush deepened, and she averted her eyes. Oliver chuckled. Pansy pretended not to notice.

He chanced a glance into her bag, which he discovered to be filled with a veritable mountain of–exclusively–Pumpkin Pasties. His eyes widened. She stole the bag away from under his incredulous gaze. “I like Pumpkin Pasties, alright?”

He held his hands up in defense. “I haven’t said a word!”

She glared. “I can _sense_ your thoughts about it. And I’ll have you know that these pasties are, quite frankly, masterful. They are an absolute delight. Unparalleled, really. Unlike you.”

“Parkinson, you’re basically just arguing with yourself. Calm the fuck down.” He grabbed a pasty from out of her bag faster than she could blink and tossed it in his mouth. He didn’t have Keeper reflexes and training for nothing, after all.

“Wood! You’re paying for that!” Pansy hissed, looking over her shoulder warily to see if the shopkeeper was watching.

He winked, and grabbed another pasty from the display behind him, tossing it into her bag as replacement. “No need to cry a river. Live a little, Parkinson.”

She pursed her lips in extreme disapproval, snatching yet another pasty and dropping it into her bag with great deliberation. She paused, then turned around and grabbed both the Sugar Quills and a Chocolate Frog, tossing them in as well. Wood grinned. She noticed, but chose to ignore him.

“I’m going to go pay for these,” Pansy announced, making her way to the checkout counter.

Oliver loitered around the store as he waited, original intent for entering the store completely forgotten as his mind replayed the memory of her eyes on his face. His pulse picked up the pace as his thoughts spiraled quickly through a hundred scenarios of how the next few moments could progress, the best involving Pansy declaring her undying love for him, and the worst featuring Pansy turning into Voldemort and telling him he was an unloved fool before _Avada Kedavra_ -ing him. Before he could decide on a plan of action, he was jerked unceremoniously from his daydreams as she grabbed his arm quite obtrusively and dragged him out of the store, bag in hand.

They walked together along the roads rather aimlessly, eventually nearing the Shrieking Shack at the edge of the village. An awkward silence pervaded their company, the need for social niceties rather forgotten in the biting cold of winter.

“Did you know Krum quit because of that World Cup game we watched?” Pansy blurted out suddenly, having stared down at her boots long enough to develop a crick in her neck.

Wood glanced at her, half-thankful for the conversation and half-despairing for the topic of conversation. Pansy grimaced immediately, probably realizing that if a Quidditch-related tidbit had been brought to her attention, then there was no chance in the frigid hell of winter that Wood hadn’t heard of it.

Wood’s expression became one of consternation. “Yeah, a damn shame, that.”

He didn’t want to contribute any more on the matter, having worked for the better part of a year and a half to block out the painful memories of his long-time idol resigning from basically the most important activity to him, ever. Another painfully quiet minute passed.

“Didn’t know I was talking to the famous authoress of ‘Weasley is Our King,’” he brought up finally, having dug up that piece of history after talking to Harry at a recent Quidditch match. Harry had been surprised to hear that Oliver had any sort of interest in Parkinson, and hadn’t hesitated to fork over that piece of gossip, probably hoping to deter him. Clearly, he had been wildly unsuccessful.

She winced slightly. “Not one of my finer moments,” she replied begrudgingly, something like regret, or perhaps wistfulness, flashing in her eyes.

“Ah well,” he shrugged it off, sensing that he probably shouldn’t have brought it up at all. “The past is the past, am I right? Let bygones be, and all that rot.”

“Yeah,” she agreed warily. “Right. Listen, Wood, why are you still talking to me?” She snorted a bit. “Well, whatever this is.” She gestured between them. “I’m not planning to jump into another relationship two days after my last one ended, you know. Even if the holidays are coming. I’m a fucking mess. I’m telling you, you should definitely avoid me for the time being. At least until I get my shit together a bit.”

Oliver tried to ignore the fact that she had basically turned him down before he had even said anything. He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You seem to have your shit together just fine. Barring the breakup, of course. Is there something else going on?”

She huffed impatiently. “ _Yes_ , Wood, I have other things going on in my life other than my pathetic excuse for a love life. People often do. People who aren’t ninnies, anyway.”

He scrunched his nose. “Ninnies?”

“Yes,” she sniffed, though it may have just been the cold, “it’s very in-season right now.”

He grimaced. “Am I a ninny?” he asked, thinking of the noticeable absence of everything except Quidditch in his life.

She scrutinized him. “A bit of one, yeah. Go find yourself a nice girl or something, Wood. It’ll be good for you.”

He considered the irony of her words, wondered briefly if there was a chance he’d die alone, and discarded the thought for the benefit of his mental wellbeing.

“Anyway, you were saying? Other things in your life?” he prompted.

She shot him a particularly annoyed look. “You pry too much for your own good, Wood. _Anyway_ , I’ve been trying to get a job. Occupy my time by bettering society, or some shit like that. I think I’m just bored, really.”

He looked at her with interest. “And how’s that going?”

Her tone immediately turned indignant. “How do you fucking _think_ it’s going, Wood? No one wants to hire the bitch who wanted to turn in golden boy Harry-fucking-Potter! Admittedly, also a low point for me, but you’d think the world would be able to move the fuck on after five years of treating me like a criminal,” she added bitterly. “No department in the Ministry wants me, even for the shittiest jobs I never would have even considered six or seven years ago. Draco’s pulled a few strings for me to interview for the Hogwarts Board of Governors in a week, as he’s still got a bit of pull from his father’s positions, but we all know they’re just agreeing so they can laugh at me and reject me like everyone else. Even Draco’s having a tough time of it there, because there’s no way they can disassociate us from the stupid kids we were six years ago!” She panted a little in the aftermath of her rant, cheeks smarting from both pent-up fury and despair and the bite of the wind.

Oliver was quiet for a moment.

“Well? Laugh at me, go ahead! I know you think I deserve it. Everyone seems to, anyhow,” she sniffed again.

She whipped her head around to stare at him, daring him with her eyes. They had stopped walking, standing in the middle of the largely deserted street, any passersby giving them a rather wide berth. Snow fell gently on their heads and shoulders, settling with the gentle nonchalance of something that knows it has no control over its future and accepts it unconditionally.

“Shut up, Parkinson. You’re going to get it. I know you are.”

She opened her mouth to retort anyway.

He cut her off, “You’re more than just a pretty face, Pansy. You know it, I know it, and all of them are going to know it. You’re going to get this job. You have to.”

She glared at him, only incensed further. “Don’t you tell me what I have to do, Wood. I will do whatever the fuck I very well please, whether that be getting the goddamn job or not!”

He grinned at her infuriatingly. “Sounds about damn right, Parkinson.”

He felt an inadvisable urge to kiss her. Before action could catch up with intent though, Pansy leaned forward to give him a quick hug, muttering, “Thanks, Wood,” into his jacket. By the time he had collected himself enough to react, she had already let go, calling out, “See you around Wood,” and Disapparating on the spot.

He stood there in the snow a few moments longer, suddenly at a loss when faced with her absence. He surprised himself with his lack of concern over her abrupt departure. She would come back eventually, he knew.

Oliver slowly walked back along the route they had traveled, a smile plastered indelibly across his face. It wasn’t until he had Apparated back home that he realized he had forgotten to buy the Christmas presents. “Ah, fuck,” he muttered.

 

_Hogwarts Quidditch Scrimmage, Spring 2005_

“Fucking _Hufflepuff_ ,” Theo groaned from Pansy’s right.

Draco turned to him in fellow commiseration. “Damn shame, really. If I had been there, it would’ve been Slytherin.”

Theo barked a disbelieving laugh. “Draco, if it had been our year, it would have been Gryffindor. It’s been eight years. You’re going to have to accept your childhood incompetence eventually.”

Draco glared at Theo, but chose wisely not to respond. “Regardless, a round of congratulations are in order. Good job on all this, Pans. You’re finally moving up in the world,” he smirked.

“Cheers, cheers,” Theo chimed in, raising a bottle of Firewhiskey.

“What the actual fuck, Theo. Where did you get that?” Draco looked at him incredulously.

Theo winked. “Every man’s got his sources of entertainment, Draco. Drunk Quidditch happens to be mine. A lot more fun when you’re actually playing, though.”

Draco gaped for a second in disbelief, then turned thoughtful, as if actually considering going home and trying it out. Pansy cleared her throat obnoxiously. “ _As Draco was saying_ , this was not an easy feat to pull together, boys. Let’s have a moment of appreciation for my work, shall we?”

“Yes, yes,” Theo drawled. “Wasn’t it appreciation enough when Lee Jordan announced to the whole stadium that you were the one responsible for this–ah, what did he call it?” Theo tapped his finger on his chin mockingly, as if trying to recall the exact phrase. “‘Shindig that will finally bring some modicum of honor, or even decorum, to the Hufflepuff name’?”

Pansy swatted at Theo admonishingly. “It’s _not_ my fault that the one time I get credit for something good, the ‘Puffs snatch away all our glory by some sadistic turn of fate.”

“It’s like the Triwizard Cup all over again,” Draco grumbled, “minus the death and Dark Lord and whatnot.”

She glared. “No, it is not at all like the Triwizard Cup, Draco. How dare you demean my efforts like that.”

In fact, Pansy, as the newest member of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, had spent the last six months arranging for this scrimmage between the winner of the Hogwarts Inter-House Quidditch Cup and the national Quidditch team of England. She had convinced herself that it was simply what the students wanted, and not some extension of her desire to see Oliver Wood again, and she stuck by her self-delusion. Regrettably, Hufflepuff had emerged the winner of the cup, something that hadn’t happened in nearly two decades, seriously disappointing McGonagall (and everyone else), who had put down over 50 Galleons on Gryffindor for the win. Sadly, while there were many fans of Quidditch, there were very few fans of Hufflepuff.

“Come here,” Pansy gestured at Draco and Theo. “Let me use you to demonstrate my spirit for the game. I’m being watched now, you know. I’m practically a symbol,” she declared haughtily.

“Of deluded egotists?” Theo snarked under his breath.

Pansy pursed her lips. “For that, you get the red and white,” she declared as she charmed Theo’s hair to match the colors of the English Quidditch team.

“I’ll have you know,” Theo sniffed, “that I can pull off anything.”

Draco looked at him in contemplation. “You know what? I think you’re right.”

Theo snickered at him. “Meanwhile, I’d say that you’re very much _not_ pulling off the bumblebee look.”

Draco conjured a mirror, staring at his now Hufflepuff-themed yellow and black striped hair in horror. “Pansy, you absolute _brute_. Charm your own goddamn hair!”

She sneered at him. “Why would I do that to myself when you’re pulling it off so well for me?”

He tried to glare at her while burying his face in his arms to avoid being identified, a feat he quickly found to be physically impossible. He settled for covering most of his face and glaring at her from the corner of his eye, while Pansy smirked at him victoriously.

“Malfoy, did you _Hufflepuff your hair_?” they heard Potter call from a few rows up, accompanied by giggling from Granger (and what a foreign sound that was). Draco buried his head further into his arms in mortification, not deigning him with a reply.

The game passed with (obviously) very little scoring done on the Hufflepuffs’ part, thanks to Wood (not to mention the painfully large gap in skill between the two teams). Pansy found her eyes drifting toward Wood through the majority of the scrimmage, and when it finally ended (after lackluster support from all but the mild-natured Hufflepuffs), she found her feet leading her down the bleachers toward where Wood had dismounted.

“Hey, Wood,” Pansy greeted, feeling grossly underwhelming for the situation.

He grabbed a nearby towel to wipe the sweat off his face, turning to her with happy surprise. “If it isn’t the woman of the hour! Come to ask for my autograph, like my hordes of adoring fans?” he asked, winking.

Pansy, despite her better judgment, grinned at him. (She regretted it almost immediately. Grinning was not her forte.) “I’m not a mindless twinkie, Wood. I’ve at least got some class.”

“Ouch. Harsh, Parkinson. So anyway, looks like you got that Board job, didn’t you? And doing a damn good job at it too,” he whistled, impressed.

She stuck her nose in the air proudly. “ _Clearly_.”

“What did I tell you, Parkinson? I knew they wouldn’t turn you down!”

“Actually, they _did_ turn me down,” she corrected coolly. “Practically greeted me with ‘Thanks, we’ve heard enough.’ I convinced them to reconsider though,” she smiled slyly. “I’m rather good at convincing people to take a second look at me. Might have Confunded one a bit too,” she added, offhandedly. “They’ve decided they could use a younger witch on the Board. Far be it from me to judge why. As long as I’m still here when they’ve keeled over dead, the current situation suits me just fine.”

He gaped at her, either out of shock or admiration–she couldn’t be sure.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “I’m probably better off not knowing. Oh right,” he recalled, pulling out a few galleons from a hidden pocket. “Here. For the pasties I ate.”

Pansy looked at him incredulously. “You’re kidding, right? It’s been a year and a half. You said it yourself. I’m rich, Wood. I don’t need your pocket money.”

He glared at her. “I’m rich now too, Parkinson. What’s a few galleons between a couple of splendidly rich people?”

“Exactly! This is an utterly pointless endeavor, Wood.”

“Just take it as a souvenir from your wildly successful Quidditch match.”

She hesitated, then swiped them from his hand. “It _was_ good, wasn’t it?” Pansy sighed in contentment. “Besides the Hufflepuff thing, at least. Pity no one’s coming to _me_ to ask for autographs,” she looked pointedly at the small crowd of girls hovering a few meters away, too daunted to interrupt their conversation to ask for Wood’s autograph.

Wood snorted. “Thought they were mindless twinkies? And who knows, maybe they _are_ here for you.”

She skeptically looked at their very blatant Oliver Wood–Keeper merchandise, then back at Wood pointedly. “Just because _I_ am not a mindless twinkie, doesn’t mean I’ll pass up on _having_ them.”

He gave her a skeptical look, then glanced back at the fans, many of whom were straining to hear their conversation with grossly curious looks on their faces. Wood cast a quick “ _Muffliato_ ,” before turning back to Pansy sheepishly. “Sorry, forgot they like to be nosy,” he apologized.

“Oh no,” Pansy gasped in mocking worry. “Whatever shall your fans do?” She gestured to the disappointed girls.

He rolled his eyes. “I’d like to think they can function well enough on their own without hearing my every conversation. More importantly, congrats, Pansy. This is _big_.”

She waved it aside with elegant nonchalance. “Well, not a big deal, in the grand scheme of things.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “But– _fuck_ , you did it, Parkinson. _You did it_.”

Startled by his intensity, she looked into his eyes, straight on, for possibly the first time ever. The earnest look in his eyes, _fuck, was that pride?_ , touched her a little more than she’d ever admit, giving her a choked-up feeling in her chest that was more foreign than not.

“Yeah, yeah I did. Thanks, Wood,” she said lowly, not trusting herself to speak at a regular volume.

His hands left her shoulders abruptly, and he smiled with a carefree air that seemed nearly practiced. “‘Course, Parkinson.”

Wood lifted the Muffliato and finally turned to sign the merchandise being shoved at him by his fans, leaving Pansy feeling rather disoriented. When he’d finished, he asked her casually, “Walk to the gate?” She nodded.

When they got to the stadium entrance, Pansy groaned when she saw the Auror standing nearby. Ron Weasley. What a fucking nightmare. She made awkward eye contact with him, and they nodded stiffly to each other before they moved on. Oliver looked between them warily. “Have you two always been like that?”

Pansy grimaced. “Remember how I told you that someone broke up with me right before Christmas the last time we met?”

Comprehension dawned on Oliver’s face. “Wow,” he muttered. “Bit of a dick, eh?”

She snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

She thought back to the half-year she had spent dating Ronald Weasley. It had been everything she had been looking for, at first. There had been energy, sparks, between them, and at the time, the one-month anniversary present of a bag of Sugar Quills and Chocolate Frogs had seemed like an infinitely more charming gift than the gaudy jewelry she was used to receiving. But Ron was the kind of person who grew complacent quickly, and teasing conversations devolved into scornful, biting arguments. The biggest blow to her ego was Ron actually breaking up with her, _two days before Christmas_. Pansy had hated herself for having believed there was still something to salvage in the relationship, when he had probably broken up with her then to avoid having to bring her into his family’s Christmas activities.

She snapped back to reality as Wood let out a low whistle. “Looks like you’ve got a thing for Gryffindor Keepers, eh?” he commented jokingly.

Pansy hesitated, sensing that this was as good a time to act as ever, with Wood practically giving her an in. She forced herself to speak before she withered up and died from old age. “Do you want to go out sometime, Wood?” she blurted out, the words chasing each other in a blunder of syllables.

They stood in a shocked sort of silence for a moment, Pansy shocked for possibly the first time ever by her own audacity, Wood shocked to hear a confession he had given up on over a year ago.

The moment passed, and a guilty look crossed his face, tinged with regret. “Actually, I’m currently dating Angelina. Johnson. Gryffindor,” he offered apologetically. “Took your advice,” he added weakly, as if in consolation.

If he said anything else, Pansy didn’t hear it, blood rushing through her head with the impact of whitewater rapids, drowning out all thoughts other than _fuck, the one time someone actually listened to me, I screwed myself over_.

The sun seemed to beat down infinitely more harshly, and she felt like she might faint, vomit, or die, or perhaps all three at once.

“Pansy?” she vaguely heard. “Are you alright?”

She might have muttered something in response, but if she had, it was lost in the paralyzing mortification that wracked her for what felt like eons after the fact.

_Get your shit together, woman_ , Pansy chided herself. _The fucking world isn’t ending_. Shockingly, even in her head, she didn’t sound convincing.

They walked in a tense silence to the gate, both sensing that the conversation was long past its expiration. “Well,” she offered lamely, having recovered enough to be cognizant of her own words again, “good luck in the playoffs and the Cup and whatnot. Don’t faint doing a Wronski, or whatever.”

Oliver burst out laughing despite himself, eyes twinkling with mirth. “I’ll try my best, Parkinson,” he assured her.

Pansy sensed a change in the atmosphere as he looked at her earnestly, and forced herself to look him in the eye. “I swear, Parkinson, I’m gonna do it. I’m going to make it to the World Cup, and I’m going to win the whole goddamn thing.”

 

_Quidditch World Cup Finals, Summer 2006_

_England vs. France_  

Pansy followed Draco in a haze of déjà vu as they walked to sit in the box for yet another World Cup Final. Except, this time, Draco was walking and chatting with Granger, leaving Pansy trailing behind. She honestly had no clue how they had progressed to even the stage of amicable friendship in the last few years, but she supposed that Draco’s happiness was long overdue, anyhow.

Pansy was left sitting in the rightmost seat in her row, Draco on her left, and Granger next to him. “Malfoy, if you shove that goddamn foam finger in my face again, I _will_ hex your balls off,” she heard Granger telling Draco in an extremely serious voice.

“ _Please_ ,” Draco scoffed, “as if you would do that to yourself.”

Granger’s hair frizzed atrociously in her ire. “Don’t test me, Malfoy,” she threatened, and astonishingly, Draco actually shut up.

Pansy shook her head, rolling her eyes. She had no idea how _they_ even dealt with their constant bickering; five minutes of it was enough to give her a throbbing migraine. She wondered idly if they were fucking yet. It was always hard to tell with them, the definitions of their relationship unknown to all, including themselves. At the very least, Granger now took on the role of listening to and dealing with Draco’s Quidditch obsession, having an excess of experience in the role after dealing with Potter and Ron, Pansy assumed, relieving Pansy herself from the role. Just for that, Pansy was grateful.

The two had started talking to each other at the Hogwarts Quidditch Scrimmage, as the event had come to be called. Pansy tried to look back on it without the constant reminder of her mortifying confession, but she wasn’t self-delusional enough to ever succeed. She had been bitter for ages after, for sure, but when the Prophet announced three months later that famous Quidditch players Oliver Wood and Angelina Johnson had broken up, Pansy had refused to contact him through sheer stubbornness, despite the ( _graceful_ , she convinced herself) little happy dance she had done in the solitude of her own home. Something about them being too similar, and breaking up on good terms. Irrelevant, in the grand scheme of things.

Draco and Granger, on the other hand, had had a veritable fucking fairy tale of a time, by comparison. After the game, Draco had tripped over her, literally, in the bleachers, and had apologized profusely, offering to buy her a hotdog.

Hermione, having been out of a relationship for ages, since before Pansy and Ron had gone out, had probably been shocked enough by his behavior that she accepted.

_“A hotdog, Malfoy? Really? Wouldn’t have thought it of you,”_ Malfoy had mimicked to Pansy in a piss-poor imitation of Granger’s voice.

_“I’ll have you know I am very tolerant of Muggle culture now, Granger,” he sniffed. “Foam fingers, especially.”_

Pansy was quite honestly shocked that _that_ had somehow started their relationship. Far be it from her to judge though, as the two had hit it off rather spectacularly after that, and had left Pansy feeling like a singular romantic failure. _Not that that’s my whole life though_ , she reminded herself. _I’m not a ninny_.

She was here for Draco, she told herself. Because she was a good goddamn friend, even if he had Granger now. As the festivities began though, and the players flew through the stadium, her eyes automatically sought out Wood, catching his eye as he flew past her box. His eyes widened in recognition in the split second he was by her, the exuberant grin on his face not faltering for a second, possibly even widening. _I’m gonna do it_ , he mouthed to her, before he zipped off toward the middle of the field.

She let a smile creep across her face, and without her intending, it stayed there for the duration of the game, as she watched Oliver defending the hoops on the far side of the field. Her focus was so singular during the game that she knew exactly how many shots he had blocked, but she had no clue as to the score of the game. It wasn’t until the end of the game, when the whole audience stood up, roaring in appreciation, that she was snapped out of her near-stupor. The whole box was screaming, “ _WE WON, WE WON, ENGLAND WON!!”_

She blinked in vague shock, watching the stadium go up in red and white in celebration of the English victory. Her eyes flickered back to where they had been trained for the last four hours, toward Oliver’s post at the hoops. For the first time, he was gone. Looking away, she spotted him, a small figure getting larger as he zoomed…toward her?

Moments later, Oliver landed in a heap of sweat and exuberance in front of her, bounding toward her with that _grin_. He swept her up, shocking her, and spun her around. “I told you I would do it, Pansy, I told you!”

Pansy’s mind froze in a state of shock as he leaned down, kissing her with the dizzying mix of musk and sandalwood and glory invading her senses. She kissed him back without thinking, losing herself in the feeling of his wind-chapped lips on hers. He pulled back first, still panting slightly for air from the game.

Pansy opened her mouth, still lost for words, nearly hitting herself when she ended up saying, “Great game, huh?”

She scrambled to recover, to say something a little more worthy of the Parkinson name, but before anything could escape her, he stopped her by kissing her again. He looked her in the eye, that grin still stretched across his face, his expression a little manic. “Shut up, Parkinson. _We did it_.”

And he leaned down to kiss her again.

 


End file.
